The book's yellow spine had "Egypt" written in bold, block letters.
At the table beside the bookshelf, a tall dark-haired woman shed her jacket and settled into the sunlit chair. Her partner - for conversation? for lunch? for life? sank into the chair across from her, sun shining across his shoulders as well. His back was to the book about Egypt and all other books on those shelves. Our eyes met once, accidentally, before his gaze shifted quickly to his partner, and I back to Egypt. My son is there.
My prairie-bound soul is not sure what that means; that he rides camels and sees a horizon marked by pyramids, learns a language spoken across desert sands and around bedouin camps. What words is he speaking, people is he seeing, smells and sounds swirling around him while I crunch through new-fallen snow under a Saskatchewan sky?